


Fixing Foxes

by graphospasm



Category: House M.D., 幽☆遊☆白書 | YuYu Hakusho: Ghost Files
Genre: Crack, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Gen, Greg House Being an Asshole, Humor, Medical Inaccuracies, i thought this crossover was ridiculous but it's actually pretty fun???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graphospasm/pseuds/graphospasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House wasn't elated at the prospect of a hospital exchange program, but he wasn't one to back down from Cuddy's dare, either. His personal demons got the best of him. Some literal ones did, too. </p><p>A House/Yu Yu Hakusho crossover in which Kurama's genetics are questioned, resulting in psychological warfare as House tries to solve his latest puzzle and Kurama tries desperately to preserve his secrets. No pairings. Set during Artifacts of Darkness arc (YYH) and early-season House. Please excuse medical errors; I'm not a doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Month is Going to be Boring

It was all Cuddy's fault, of course. He knew that on a conscious level (the level on which he knew puppies were cute and Chase would be significantly less attractive without his Aussie-boy accent), but a deeper, hidden part of him knew that he had something to do with it, too. His reputation as the uncontrollable genius, his constant worrying of Cuddy's nerves, the way he inspired lawsuit after lawsuit with his so-called obsession with exposing extramarital affairs...it was no wonder Cuddy had been so quick to volunteer him for the hospital's stupid 'doctor exchange.' Getting him out of her hair and halfway around the globe was a sure-fire way to restock the mental artillery in time for his return a month later. As much as House resented being shipped off to Japan with only two day's notice, he knew that he was looking forward to battling a renewed Cuddy upon his return.

But House would never admit _that_ to himself, either.

* * *

Sendai Hospital was a solid looking building, much like all the other Japanese buildings he had seen from the window of the taxi that had picked him up at the airport. White walls, a flat roof many stories above his head, frequent but small windows to let in light—yes, House decided, the hospital was as austerely Japanese as he had expected. It was a simple place, a straight rectangle not unlike an office building but definitely _not_ like Princeton Plainesborough with all of its wings and side doors and marble tile. House hated it on sight. The architecture was not nearly interesting enough.

The doctor waiting for him at the hospital's ambulance port, however, he did like, at least at first. The man was tall for a Japanese guy, though he was not as tall as House, and he wore frameless glasses beneath his graying hair. Impeccable scrubs, shiny shoes, and a white lab coat ironed to perfection seemed to say _Please do not offend my Japanese sensibilities or else I will karate chop you into next Wednesday._ House made a mental note not to piss him off... at least until he figured out what color belt he was. House hit his limit at green.

"Welcome," the doctor said when House stepped out of the cab. "This is Sendai Hospital, and I am Doctor Momokura." He bowed from the waist. "I have been expecting you. It is an honor to meet you, Doctor House."

"You speak English?" House asked. He did not return the bow. The doctor's voice was deep, pleasant, and touched by the small hesitation of an accent that made each word he spoke sound measured, calculated, and as dangerous as an asp coated in satin.

"Yes," said Momokura. "I have found the skill to be useful when negotiating with American pharmaceutical companies." His narrow black eyes betrayed little emotion, and with a sinking feeling House realized that this doctor would not be nearly as fun to tease as Cuddy. Insults would roll off Momokura like rain even as Momokura subtly fought back, and the man obviously had a backbone as unbendable as steel.

 _This month is going to be boring,_ House thought, and as he paid the cabby he resolved to find someone—anyone—to lessen that feeling.

What was waiting for him at Sendai Hospital was not, however, what House had had in mind.

* * *

Momokura gave him a tour first, of course, and had one of the orderlies take House's suitcases off somewhere. House didn't like being separated from his things, or that the burly orderly was eyeing his luggage like it might be worth more than his hourly wage, but Momokura's intimidating eyes didn't allow House to complain. Not yet, at any rate.

The hospital was arranged by floor. On the first floor you had the ER and the ICU, which House thought was a weird place for them but Momokura, upon seeing the American's incredulous expression, explained that non-emergency patients parked in a garage behind the building and came in through a separate set of doors. From there they could take a staircase or elevator to the second floor which, Momokura said, housed the equivalent of Plainesborough's dreaded clinic. Above the clinic were four more floors: surgery, testing facilities, and the labs and the offices of different departments. The intensive care and long-term patients were on the top floor.

Momokura's office was on the bottom floor, right down among the hubbub of the ER. House could hear people barking orders through the office's thin walls. His bags had been set atop the large wooden desk that took up most of the tiny room's floor space, and Momokura bade him take a seat in the only threadbare chair other than the one behind the desk, which Momokura took himself.

"A relationship grounded in honesty can stretch as tall as the oldest oak," Momokura said as House got settled. The look in his eye promised nothing good despite his quotation of such a peaceful adage. "May I be bold?"

"Only if you don't mind me being a jerk," House said cheerfully. He spun his cane in one hand as he lounged in his cramped seat, one leg crossed over the other in defiance.

Momokura raised an eyebrow at House's impolite posture, the first display of emotion he'd shown all day.

"Oh, don't give me that look!" House said, feigning hurt and shock. "I'm fragile, you know. It's part of a cripple's skill-set."

"You have quite a reputation, House-san," Momokura deadpanned. He acted like he hadn't heard House speak. "In fact, it is such a reputation that is has reached even  _my_ ears, all the way across the sea."

"What can I say? People just love me."

"Not according to your reputation." Momokura inclined his head to just the right angle; his glasses caught the glare of the overhead lights, obscuring his eyes completely. "You are crass, and you do not respect authority. And in this hospital, there is no place for that. I will not allow you to bend rules. You will find that Japan is much more strict than your homeland. Tread carefully."

House showed his teeth, but no one could call the look a smile. "Like an elephant through a china shop—or is mixing Asians like mixing metaphors here? Sorry. My bad."

Momokura was less than amused, but he did not acknowledge House's insubordination and said: "I have a sickness I wish you to diagnose."

"Oh don't worry, that thing you don't have is called a personality."

Momokura went still, and House realized that he had said too much.

"I want you here," said Momokura, taking off his glasses, "because you are a brilliant man. But there are other brilliant men, many of whom have tried and failed to cure my patient. If you do not think you can help me and are acting this way in hopes you will be dismissed, then you may go. I will find someone else with the ability."

House paused, pride stinging.

Then: "What's wrong with your patient?"

* * *

House looked over Minamino Shiori's file with clenched teeth. Her symptoms—ones typical of a wasting illness—had not responded to any of the dozens of treatments she'd been subjected to. The charts sad she was clean of cancer, clean of viruses, clean of autoimmune disorders—

Still, though. She was, without a doubt, dying.

The worst part? House had no idea what was wrong with her. The pictures, the charts, the notes...all of them in broken English, all of them useless. He didn't even have a team to bounce ideas off of.

Against his better judgment, he decided to see his patient for himself.


	2. You're Adopted and Your Parents Don't Even Love You

A pretty woman, but a thin one—that was Shiori-san. Her long black hair was soft, her brown eyes just as much so, she was never hungry and responded to House's checkup with smiles, compliance, and weakness. Her room was the farthest from civilization, a corner room with only one window, and it looked lived in. There were flowers on every available surface, framed pictures on the walls, and seat covers with matching pillows.

House hated it. He hated it almost as much as he hated his cell of an apartment in the hospital's basement.

"Does this hurt?" he asked as Shiori lay back against her bed. He was pressing into her diaphragm with searching fingers, looking for sensitivity and soreness, when someone else walked into the supposedly private room.

"Obaa-san, watashi wa—eto, konnichiwa?"

Shiori's face lit up as she looked past House, staring brightly at the doorway, and House (counting on the Japanese intruder's supposed ignorance) said over his shoulder: "Get out, dammit—I'm working."

"Are you Mother's new doctor?" the voice said in perfect English, and House turned.

In the doorway stood a tall young person holding a riotous bundle of flowers. He wore a pink suit _thing_ with a high collar that clashed horribly with his crayola-red hair and grass-green eyes. For a moment House was stunned into silence by the kid's sheer prettiness. That pale skin, the perfect flow of his features with those gigantic eyes and well shaped lips and high cheekbones, the silky hair that tumbled to the kid's waist in shining ripples...only belatedly did House realize he was looking at an effeminate young man, not a pretty young woman with weird taste in clothing.

It was disgusting.

"Nice uniform," House snapped. The kid stepped forward and put the flowers in a vase at Shiori's bedside.

"Thank you," the kid said, and he said something to Shiori in Japanese. House wasn't paying attention, though, so he didn't catch it.

He did, however, hear her response, which was: "Better, thank you."

"You need to eat something," the kid said, and he looked at House. His next words were in English. "May I—?"

"Get my patient food?" House said, finishing the Japanese sentence in English. The kid's brow furrowed.

"You speak Japanese." It was not a question.

"Only under pain of death," House said. He turned back to Shiori so he could continue his investigative probes. "If my patients figured it out they wouldn't stop asking questions, though I suppose it's too late to bash you over the head with a bedpan and hope for amnesia. Also, the answer is no. Would you tell her to raise her right hand if anything hurts?"

"Why not tell her yourself?" said the young man. He had dragged a chair over to Shiori's bedside and was rummaging around in his school bag, from which he took a green apple and a small knife.

"Pain of death, remember?" House said, and he dropped his hands from Shiori's midsection. "Just do it, dammit. And I said no food!"

"My name is Shuichi," said Shuichi, and he gave Shiori House's message as he began peeling the apple. "And my mother hasn't eaten all day. I don't think one measly apple is going to throw your whole diagnostic session into instant disarray."

House's hand shot out, aiming to grab the apple or the knife, but even with the element of surprise on his side he was unable to out-quick Shuichi, whose own hands flashed away faster than House could follow.

The reaction bothered House. Reflexes weren't supposed to be that fast.

"Give it to me," House said instead, holding out his hand. "I'm her doctor and what I say goes."

Shuichi raised an elegant eyebrow. "And her next of kin gets...nothing?" he said, and he gave Shiori—who had been glancing between him and House in confusion—a reassuring smile.

House snorted. "You're adopted. She probably doesn't even love you."

House's words—words meant to goad and to antagonize, but not very seriously—had an unexpected result: they made Shuichi freeze. The redhead's hands and eyes went still mid-apple-peel, and the reaction lasted only a beat before he regained his mobility. Still, House saw it, and he wondered at it.

"I," said Shuichi, eyes fixed on the apple in his hands, "am not adopted."

House scowled. "Of course you are. You called her 'mother' and you're not related, so you're adopted." He raised his eyebrows. "Unless you're a surrogate, but still—not related. Creepy, yes, but not related."

"What are you talking about?" Shiori asked in Japanese. Shuichi patted her shoulder.

"Just your medical history, Mother," he said.

"Wait, I get it, she hasn't told you that you're adopted and you figured it out already, so you're keeping it a secret," House went on. "Great! Now that that's settled, put down the damn apple and be quiet."

"I am _not_ ," Shuichi said, but with much more force this time, " _adopted_!"

House rolled his eyes. "You can tell yourself that all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that you have red hair and green eyes and European features and a full-blooded Japanese woman for a mother, and for you to be biologically born to her with your coloring is a genetic impossibility no matter _who_ your father was." House threw up his hands in disgust. "God, has no one _ever_ picked up on that before? Are there no doctors in this country?" He paused. "Probably not. Why else would they need _me_ here?"

Shuichi—who had been looking more and more uncomfortable while House spoke—said: "I am her son and she is my mother, and in the end it should not matter whose—"

"See! Even _you_ admit that you're adopted!"

Green eyes flashed. " _I am not adopted_ ," Shuichi hissed, and House pulled his hands away from his investigation of Shiori's leg muscles. For a moment he had felt open, exposed, and—what was that?— _afraid_ of the young man with improbable eyes and hair. "And you will _not_ say such things to my mother; is that understood?"

House didn't move or speak. He just stood there, hands at his sides with his cane hooked onto the hospital bed's railing. The buzz and beep of monitors hummed around him.

"You won't admit that you're adopted," House said at last, "but you _don't_ deny that you're not genetically linked, either. And you don't want her hearing all of this, which means she doesn't even _suspect_ any of this, but because you don't want _her_ knowing means that _you_ _know_ whatever it is she _doesn't_ know about." His head tilted until he was looking at Shuichi out of one eye more than the other. "Convoluted logic, yes, but Occam's Razor says that if it looks adopted and quacks like it's adopted, it probably is adopted."

He stared at Shuichi some more, but the boy did not crack under pressure. In fact, he remained remarkably cool as he cut a small slice of apple into a bite-sized piece and handed it to his mother.

"You're protecting her from becoming suspicious of you," House said when it became apparent Shuichi was not going to answer. "That's not normal mother-son behavior."

Shuichi swallowed as he made another cut. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, but his eyes shifted slightly to the left in the discomfort House fed on.

"Sure you do," House said in a thoroughly pleasant way. He even smiled a little. "The question is... how do _you_ know more about your birth than _your own_ _mother_?"

* * *

Wilson sounded groggy when he answered the phone. Only belatedly did House remember the time difference between Japan and America's east coast. _I'm brilliant even unaware_ , he thought as Wilson muttered a grouchy 'hello,' and he smirked.

"Two people," House began as he settled down atop his meager bed. "A mother and a son. Mommy Dearest is Japanese and Sonny Boy is a total suck-up."

"House?" Wilson said in disbelief. "House? Is that you?"

"Sounds like a perfect setup," House went on. "Only, Sonny Boy is hiding something he doesn't want Mommy Dearest knowing about, and it isn't the pantyhose he's been trying on when no one's looking." He feigned absolute astonishment. "What could it _be_ , I wonder?"

"You know, I was looking forward to some peace and quiet around here," Wilson said. "But no, _some_ body had to give you a phone. And who's paying for this?"

"I dialed collect," House said. Wilson cursed. "So what could Sonny Boy be hiding? Any guesses? Guess correctly and you win a prize!"

"Is the prize the end of this phone call?"

"Nope. Guess again."

Wilson sighed and rolled over. Sheets crinkled into the phone's receiver. His voice sounded dejected. "He's a crossdresser?" he asked, resigned.

"I was kidding about the pantyhose," House said, "but he's pretty enough to pull off being a girl and his hair is longer than Cameron's, so you're probably right for once, and in honor of this momentous occasion—"

Wilson muttered something about being underappreciated—

—but House ignored him: "—henceforth his name shall be... 'Pretty Boy.'" House smirked. "I like that."

"House, I don't have time for—"

"He's a red-head," House interjected. "And I don't mean one of those soul-sucking ginger kids with freckles and hazel eyes, either. I mean he's a _red_ head."

"What's the difference?"

"Ever seen a firetruck?"

Wilson paused. "His hair is _that_ red?"

"And his eyes are like verdant forest pools," House soliloquized. "Seriously though, it's like someone dunked him in a Christmas card. I've never seen hair or eyes that vivid before in my life. It's impossible."

"And you think this weird pigmentation means he's hiding some nefarious world domination plot, or..."

"Nothing quite so dramatic, Wilson—calm down." House could image Wilson rolling his eyes. It was a nice picture. Casually, he remarked: "I called him out on being adopted."

Wilson was aghast. "You did _what_?"

"I told him he was adopted and that his parents didn't even love him," he said as Wilson sputtered in the background. "C'mon, his mom's as Japanese as they come and he's just _not_. Not even his _features_ are Japanese. His eyes are the size of my fists. But get this, as soon as I said it he went all... weird."

"Oh really? Because if someone told me that I was adopted and that my parents don't even love me, I would be completely fine!"

House's joking mood vanished as he sat there, silent and serious for once. "He got  _weird_ , Wilson," he said slowly, and Wilson got serious, too.

"Weird how?"

"He froze. He went all still and quiet, and then he acted like nothing had happened. He kept saying that he wasn't adopted, but when I brought up his genetics and how it's pretty much impossible for him to be related to his 'mother'—" House made air quotes with his free hand "—he didn't try to talk me down or anything. He just kept saying 'I'm not adopted' until he was blue in the face."

"Seems he reacted pretty well to you," Wilson said. "Most people can't stay half that calm when you really set in on them."

"And then he told me that I wasn't allowed to say one more word about that in front of his mother—"

"You said all this in front of his _mother_?"

"We were talking in English," House snapped. "She's monolingual. Her son's accent is flawless, much like the rest of him. Except for the adoption thing. That wasn't flawless."

"Hair dye."

House went quiet.

"Hair dye and contact lenses. I'm sure he's normal under them. You said it yourself—his coloring is impossible." A pause. "And aren't _most_ Japanese kids into dressing up like cartoon characters?"

"Like _anime_ characters, you uncultured hick. And it didn't look fake, Wilson," said House. "It doesn't seem _real_ , but it doesn't seem _fake_ , either. I can't explain it without sounding like an idiot, but you can tell when you see hair dye and his hair _isn't_ dyed." He shook his head from side to side. "Not the point. He told me that I wasn't allowed to mention it in front of his mother again, which means he _knows_ something's up, and since he wants to protect his mother from it—"

"—it means she _doesn't_ know something's up," Wilson finished. "House, look, I know you like a good puzzle—"

"I haven't even brought up his mom's disease yet," House said.

"—but family matters are just that: _family_ matters. You don't have any place poking into this kid's business."

"But—"

"No buts," Wilson said. "Leave the kid alone, House. Whether or not he's adopted, a surrogate, or some weird alien parasite is  _his business_ , not yours."

"But how does a kid know more about his own birth than his _mother_?" House said, desperate for Wilson's interest in the issue. "She was _there_ for it; she saw _everything_ and he was just a _baby_ , and yet _he_ knows something _she doesn't_!"

"Ignorance is bliss, House," Wilson said simply. "And that's especially true for parents."

House started to reply, but Wilson cut him off.

"Let it go, House," Wilson said. "Let it go. Just focus on your work and forget about it." They were both silent until Wilson said: "Bye, House."

House did not reply. He just hung up.


	3. What Do You Mean, I Can't Biopsy Her Brain?

Minamino Shiori-san—or, as House's insistently do-not-connect-with-patients side liked to call her, 'Mommy Dearest'—had all the signs of a wasting illness: fatigue, the inability to process food, hair loss, weight loss, deterioration of the senses, labored breathing, low t-cell count, an erratic pulse, decreased kidney and liver function—you name it, Mommy Dearest had it, and she had it in the spades. Her immunity to disease was so minimal that everyone who came into contact with her had to wash up for ten minutes before entering her room. She could only stomach plain rice and clear water, making feeding her via intravenous drip necessary, and she had become so sensitive to light that the blinds in her room remained permanently shut. Her genetic oddity of a son had to speak in whispers to keep her from crying of headache.

Some days were better than others, of course. A few days after House got there, she felt well enough to open the blinds and sit up; Shuichi peeled her another green apple, chatting with her about school and his club activities, but by the end of his visit Mommy Dearest was so tired that she slept for almost eighteen hours straight. Some of the nurses feared she had fallen into a coma, and when at last Shiori woke she was too tired to even see her beloved not-quite-related-somehow-but-still-her-own-son-somehow, Shuichi.

In House's not-so-humble opinion and despite his not-so-humble disdain for God, the fact that Mommy Dearest was still well enough to even  _speak_ at this point was nothing short of a miracle.

* * *

House suspected cancer at first, possibly of the brain variety given the overall shittiness of the rest of her, and he ordered the tests necessary to find out if he was right. Doctor Momokura, however, just shook his head when House asked for permission to use the hospital's facilities, and the Japanese man told the American: "She does not have cancer."

"Maybe you missed it," House said. "You Japanese aren't known for your eyesight. Remember all those ships your fighter pilots ran into during World War II? I think it was on the news."

Momokura was not amused. "We have made multiple attempts to find tumors," he said, composure cracking just a bit when his mouth twitched in agitation. "We have not found _any_."

"Yes, but you don't see _my_ people running into things with _planes_ , now do you?" House mocked. "My eagle eyes might surprise you."

The head of medicine paused, breathing deeply through his nose before saying: "You may run the tests."

House started to pay him a sarcastic thanks.

"But you will _not_ find anything."

House decided that leaving was the most prudent option at that point. He did not like the darkening look in Momokura's eye.

* * *

He waited to tell Mommy Dearest about the upcoming tests until her son was in attendance, since Pretty Boy could translate House's English and therefore alleviate the doctor of dealing with his patient directly. Predictably, it was Pretty Boy who asked: "My mother has already undergone those tests, House-sensei."

"What did you say, Shuichi-kun?" Mommy Dearest asked. Anxious eyes watched her son for clues.

Shuichi took her hand and held it in his lap, cradling her fingers within his like she was made of fine china. House noticed—though not for the first time—the network of upraised scars on the undersides of Mommy Dearest's forearms, peeking out as they were from the bell-sleeves of her hospital robe. The marks were years old, glaringly white against her copper flesh, and at first he had suspected they were self-inflicted, but the patterns were randomly sized and all the marks were the same age, perhaps suggesting an accident of some kind…?

"Would you mind repeating everything for her to hear, House-sensei?" Pretty Boy asked. "Your Japanese is flawless when you choose to use it."

House stared at him, totally unreceptive of Shuichi's smooth flattery. Shuichi stared back, eyes guileless and serene, suggesting that he hadn't meant to flatter the crotchety doctor at all. Eventually, however, the redhead sighed, turned to his mother, and began to formulate an arduous translation of House's complicated medical jargon.

"He is suggesting you undergo some tests you have already taken," the kid explained. He then went over each test by name, with his mother frowning at the mention of each one.

"But none of them bore results the _first_ time," she said when Pretty Boy finished. To House she posed the question: "I apologize for my impudence, but what would retaking the tests accomplish?"

House looked to Pretty Boy. "I don't trust your doctors," he said bluntly, a phrase which earned him an incredulous expression from Shuichi. "I want them done again."

"You mean, you want to do them yourself?" Shuichi asked.

House snorted. "No. _I_ don't deal with patients."

"You're dealing with one right now."

"Only because no one here speaks English well enough for a reliable translation, besides you." He rolled his eyes. "The education system in this country must really blow."

Shuichi's lips pursed, but then something in his eyes sparked with…amusement, was it? House didn't like the emotion no matter its true identity, and as he started to ask what the hell was up—

"House-sensei said that he wants to do the tests himself," the kid unflinchingly lied, smiling at Shiori in a perfect mockery of genuine happiness. House only knew the expression wasn't sincere because those green eyes were _laughing at him_ , practically dancing in their sockets like leprechauns on crack.

Pretty Boy promptly dug the hole even deeper. "He believes that doing each test himself would help him connect with your case on a _personal level_ ," the kid said, patting his mother's arm in forced excitement. "He wants to be sure that he handles every aspect of your illness as more than a doctor, but also as a fellow human being!"

This, of course, was the opposite of House in almost every sense, and the words made House's eyes snap open to their widest. His fist clenched around his cane, knuckles going as white as Mommy Dearest's pinched face as blood fled from the outraged joints.

Shuichi shot a sidelong glance at the American, seeing his discomfort and growing fury with a smirk.

"Isn't that right, doctor?" he innocently asked, and then he smiled.

It was, by House's estimation, the smile of a shark: just enough teeth to be frightening, just enough  _lack of teeth_ to not be overly aggressive and it was, therefore, more terrifying than any overdone display of ferocity could ever hope to be. The smile held a quiet menace, a calculated edge, a hidden intensity that made House wonder just what the hell kind of _child_ he had assumed Shuichi to be, because that smile was _not_ a smile any normal child should have been capable of.

 _Speak to my mother in Japanese,_ Shuichi's smile seemed to say _, or else face the consequences of ignoring her as_ I _dictate them to be. You have trusted me to translate for you, after all—_

The smile seemed to widen, as if Pretty Boy could sense House's unease… and feed off it.

— _but whoever said I was trustworthy?_

House's jaw could only drop. Shuichi's eyes continued to glimmer.

Shiori broke the spell, snapping House back to reality. "Oh, how kind of you!" she gasped, and Mommy Dearest had sat up despite her weakness, grabbed House's hand, and squeezed it with all the force of a weary butterfly.

" _Thank you_ , House-sensei," she said, liquid eyes full of indebted tears. "To be so kind, it surely is a gift from God!"

"A gift indeed," said Pretty Boy, and his lips curled into another smile.

House could hardly remember what was said after that—he only wanted to get away from Shuichi, who watched his every move the way a predator might watch its prey. It wasn't until House made it back to his cramped quarters in the hospital's basement, pride stinging as he recalled what he'd gotten himself into by underestimating what he had _assumed_ to be a normal child, that he remembered and replayed Shiori's words.

"To be so kind, it surely is a gift from god," Shiori had said.

"No," House muttered to himself, thinking all the while of Shuichi's killer's smile. "No, not from God. From the _devil_."

* * *

The tests, after House administered and interpreted them himself, came back clean, true to Momokura's word. House promptly shrugged the failure off and asked for a battery of auto-immune tests. It seemed, after all, like the next-most-likely-cause for a wasting illness, but once again the head doctor warned House that his attempts were futile.

"Autoimmune was our first guess," he explained, "but if you wish to test and see for yourself…"

"I do," said House.

"So be it."

* * *

Mommy Dearest, however, managed to defy House's logic yet again. She did not have an autoimmune disorder, which meant it couldn't be lupus (it was never lupus).

"It's gotta be neurological," House told Wilson over the phone after the tests came back. "No cancer, no autoimmune—I want to do a cranial biopsy, get some of her brain tissue under a microscope—"

"At least rule out viral and bacterial infections before you go cutting into her skull, House!" Wilson protested.

"She's not running a fever. It's not viral."

"Maybe her body doesn't _know_ it has a virus; no fever would present if it's bound in with her white blood cells or bone marrow." House could imagine Wilson waving his arms around, face screwed up in concentration mixed with his typical outrage. "Or  _maybe_ her temperature runs lower than most people's and her having a normal one now means she's actually feverish. You've had cases like that before!"

And so House had.

"And try to remember that this is a woman with a  _child_ ," Wilson said, sighing. "I doubt she'd agree to a complicated procedure like that biopsy, anyway."

The words—words about a _child_ , a _child_ that had defied House's logic at every turn and who wasn't really a _child_ at all—gave House an idea.

A wonderful, horrible, _awful_ idea.

* * *

"What do you mean, I'm _not allowed_ to biopsy her brain?" House snapped.

Momokura carefully slid the paperwork—paperwork that would have been fully in order had he just signed on the damned dotted lines—to House over the smooth surface of his desk.

"We want you to cure her, not cripple her," Momokura deadpanned.

"But a biopsy is the only way I'll figure out if the problem is neurological!"

"Not while there are still _other_ avenues of possibility, it won't. You have only ruled out cancer and autoimmune disorders," Momokura said. He pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, sniffing in the process. "We did as much ourselves."

"Yeah, and you also ruled out viral, which means a neurological disor—"

Momokura's eyebrows shot up. "You trust our antibody panels?" he asked.

House went silent.

"How strange," the doctor mused. "You did not trust our cancer diagnosis, _or_ our autoimmune battery, to the point of redoing _all of the tests yourself_ … " (at this point Momokura gave House a faux-puzzled smile) "…and yet here you are, ready to trust our antibody panels and skip over _all possibility_ of a viral infection."

He steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair to regard House with masked amusement.

"My, my," he said. "Have we really earned your trust so quickly?"

House didn't like being played. He liked doing it to other people, sure, but to have the same trick pulled on _himself_ was—

He took a deep breath to steady his thoughts. In truth, he just wanted to skip right to the biopsy so he could put his wonderful, horrible, _awful_ idea into action, but Momokura did not need to know that, so…

"I'll look for viruses," House snapped (but he thought: _Let him_ think _I'm cooperating)._ The American stood up and started to storm out of the office, but at the last second he doubled back and snatched the rejected biopsy permission form off the desk.

"But I'll be back with _this_ ," he said, shaking the papers in Momokura's face, "when the panel comes back clean."

* * *

Momokura's rejection of the potentially-life-threatening biopsy threw a monkey wrench into House's Wilson-inspired plan, of course, because without the potentially-life-threatening biopsy there  _was_ no Wilson-inspired plan. The entire thing hinged on the biopsy looming above Mommy Dearest and Pretty Boy's heads, because when people went under pressure, House knew that they revealed more about themselves than they could ever dream. The kid's infuriatingly unflappable demeanor would surely crack if things became too…stressing, as it were.

Too bad, then, that everything had gone to shit the moment Momokura refused to pick up a pen.

It was a pity, really. Even though Mommy Dearest's illness was fast becoming a puzzle worthy of keeping House's interests piqued, it wasn't enough (quite yet) to make up for being stuck in a foreign country against his will. Now if he could crack the case of the mother-son relationship, well, _that_ would be something worth remembering on a trip otherwise filled with the mundane. If only he could get permission for the biopsy, House was sure he could get the young redhead to lose his cool…

However, as House rode the elevator to the long-term patient floor to collect blood for the antibody panel, he realized something.

It wasn't like little details such as _hospital permission forms_ had ever stopped House's plans _before_ …

As the elevators doors opened, House began to smile.


	4. Everybody Lies

Though Kurama would never admit as much aloud, for Dr. Gregory House he held a degree of grudging respect.

House's rude, patronizing attitude was unforgivable, of course. Kurama detested the way House spoke to him and the other doctors, with that air of smug superiority and dry, biting humor. Kurama hated the way House tried to dig into Kurama's past. Kurama reviled the glitter in House's eye when the American insulted his red hair and bright eyes. Kurama loathed the mind games, the verbal sparring, the nitpicking and bullying and House's utter refusal to do anything anyone else's way. The man was an overgrown child with a medical degree and reputation for brilliance his attitude alone should've disqualified him from.

And yet.

And yet, House re-ran all of his mother's tests. One by one, House checked for cancers, for disorders, for genetic abnormalities, for anything the other doctors might have missed. He wanted to run the tests himself, rule out all possibilities, ensure Shiori's health and safety with his own hands. All the while, House refused to speak to Shiori directly. Some might interpret this as a lack of bedside manner, but Kurama had been on the receiving end of House's sharp tongue. He'd rather his mother be treated with silence than insults. House never insulted Shiori to her face, nor did he handle her roughly. He was unerringly dedicated in his quest to save the woman's life.

Or solve the puzzle of her disease, at least. Kurama had done his research when House appeared in his mother's life. House was well known in the medical world for his obsession with medical puzzles. House was a puzzle-obsessed prodigy. He had more diagnoses under his belt than the next three most prestigious diagnosticians in the world _combined_. The man lived for the mystery, for the chase, for the moment of resolution when all the pieces fell together. He was notorious for ignoring patients, but renowned for curing them. Whether or not the doctor wanted to heal Shiori or solve the puzzle Shiori represented was anyone's guess.

Either way: Means to an end. If House could save Shiori, Kurama would bear the acerbic doctor's attitude with gratitude.

That didn't mean he had to _like_ Dr. House, though.

* * *

House barged in while Kurama was trying to coax his mother into eating a bite of rice. The doctor said: "How many sexual partners does your mother have?"

Shiori looked up, smile gentle and tentative; she hadn't understood the English question. Kurama, meanwhile, froze solid. He'd understood every word, much to his chagrin.

"Well?" House said. He limped into the room and sat in the unoccupied visitor's chair, which he leaned onto its back legs. He crossed his own legs at the knee, laced his hands behind his head, and raised an eyebrow. House's bright blue eyes bored into Kurama like drill bits made of ice. "Is your mother a whore, or isn't she?"

"Do not speak of my mother with such language," Kurama snapped. He forgot to moderate his tone; Shiori's eyes widened at the sound of his growling speech. Kurama took a deep breath and smiled at her. "Sorry, Mother," he said in Japanese. He felt none of his calm veneer on the inside, blood running hot then cold with anger. "The doctor said something impolite. You know how ignorant House-sensei can be when it comes to our customs."

Shiori, lying back on her pillows, offered her son a weak but supportive smile. Kurama had told her how rude House could be, especially by Japanese standards. Kurama saw in her eyes that she thought House had said something merely impolite, not outright insulting. That was good. Kurama did not want to stress his mother more than he had to.

He looked up. House was staring, lips curled into a gleeful sneer. The stubble on his chin made him look older, but the bright blue of his eyes made him seem boyish. Playful, even. Kurama knew better than to believe that, though.

"My mother is single, and has no sexual partners," Kurama said. He regulated his tone that time, keeping it smooth, bland, and pleasant. "She has not been dating for many years."

"Did _she_ tell you that?" House said.

Kurama did not reply, unsure of what House might be implying (and surely there _was_ an implication—this was House, after all). House leaned forward, chair legs clacking against the floor. He spun his cane in lazy circles with one hand. He hadn't taken off his shoes, Kurama noticed. Kurama wore indoor slippers, per Japanese custom, but House still wore his battered Nike sneakers. What an uncouth man. Kurama found himself wondering how House managed to find a job in America. Or was this level of vulgarity commonplace in that country? House wouldn't last long in the tactful, polite Japan, that was certain.

"What, cat got your tongue?" House asked. He leveled the end of the cane at Shiori, pointing at her (another breach of custom; Kurama's lip curled on reflex). "Out with it. How many people does she sleep with in a week?"

"None," Kurama replied. He was standing at his mother's beside; he set down the bowl of rice he'd been holding, gently squeezed his mother's hand, and walked to the foot of her bed. Once he put his mother at his back, he let his eyes flash with dangerous intention—the look Kurama would give an enemy on the battlefield to warn them away from attacking. He knew how chilling it would seem to House, a mere human with no battle experience of his own. "Leave. _Now_."

House just smirked, though, unaffected by the cold glare. "Everybody lies," he said. " _Everybody_ , no exceptions. And the ones they lie to most, tend to be the people they most care about." He jabbed the cane at Shiori again; Kurama nearly snatched the object from House's hand, but restrained himself at the last second. "Mommy Dearest wouldn't tell you if she had taken up stripping to help pay her medical bills." He eyed Shiori critically, up and down like she was a piece of meat. "Not that anyone would hire _her_. I'm depressed just looking at her. You don't hire the depressing ones to work the pole. The depressing ones make the _other_ kind of pole you find in strip clubs go a bit…" He raised a finger, then slowly curled it with a faux-regretful expression. "…limp. Whomp, whomp!"

Kurama's fists clenched. For House to speak so brazenly about Kurama's mother was absolutely beyond the pale. Energy surged into Kurama's hands on reflex. Although he had lived as a human for sixteen years, the demonic instinct to attack an aggressor rose hot and high within him. _Make House pay_ , the fox inside Kurama whispered.

Luckily for House, Kurama had learned to ignore that feral inner voice.

"Leave," Kurama said again. His voice stayed low, steady, and dangerous. "Leave. _Now_."

"Is that what _she_ says when she's done with her clients?" House said. He would've looked genuinely curious, if not for the sardonic gleam in his eye. "Is Mommy Dearest not the cuddling type?" Then he waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Sorry, I went back to her being a whore. I should've told you I'd amended my mental image of her from stripper to prostitute." He sighed, eyes rolling. "I know, it's hard to keep up with me sometimes. My brain just moves so _fast_!"

Kurama glanced toward the door. Then he glanced toward Shiori, and then the windows. How long would it take him to shut and lock the door, murder House, knock out his mother, and flee with House's body in tow? Because aside from his mother's convalescence, that's what Kurama wanted most in all the world. The idea of killing House was a nice daydream, if nothing else…

"So tell me," House was saying. He leaned forward, elbows resting on both knees. "How many? What's her number?"

"Her number is zero," Kurama spat. He gestured at his mother. "She can't get out of bed, much less date!"

"Ah-ah-ah! I didn't say anything about _dates_ ," House said, shaking his finger at Kurama. "Whores don't date! They just screw! Pay attention, kiddo, this is your mommy we're talking about!"

Oh, that was it. House was a dead man. Kurama reached into his pocket and pasted on a wide, eerie smile. He had a demonic seed that would do the trick, he was sure…

But House leaned back in his chair, then, expression turning serious. "What if I told you your mother's symptoms mimick a rare, sexually-transmitted disease," he said.

Kurama removed his hand from his pocket. He studied House's face. To his immense surprise, he detected no deception in the doctor's eyes.

"The Elda virus," House said. "It's on the rise in Ecuador. If she'd had a partner who visited that country…" He shrugged. "The symptoms all fit. And the incubation period can be up to a year or more, which fits with the timeline when she first developed symptoms."

Kurama frowned. He'd never heard of that virus before, but if House was telling the truth...

Could it be…?

Could his mother have…?

Kurama mentally chided himself. No. No, it couldn't be. Kurama's nose wouldn't lie. He would've smelled a man on his mother if she'd been with one.

That gave Kurama an idea. He briefly shut his eyes and summoned his energy, channeling it into his nose with a snap of will. In an instant his sense of smell improved by leaps and bounds, as sharp as it would have been if Kurama assumed his previous form as a fox. He usually made an effort not to use this power in the hospital. The scent of sickness was overwhelming. Before his mother sickened, he'd allowed himself to use his augmented sense of smell almost constantly. When she moved to the hospital, though, he muffled the power. The hospital odors tended to turn his stomach.

…but House invited Kurama to make an exception.

Kurama took a deep breath through his improved nose. With the breath came the scents of sickness, decay, urine, feces, vomit, all smashed together beneath the pungent chemicals used to disinfest the sources of the aforementioned biological aromas. He sorted through them one by one, eyes on the verge of watering as he tried to focus on House, sorting through the air currents until he detected one that stank of Vicodin, alcohol, cheap bath products…

Ah.

There it was.

Kurama had smelled liars before. Sweat. Adrenaline. Catecholamines—these things were all indicative of a lie, and all of these things he smelled radiating from House.

Slowly, Kurama pulled his energy back into his core. He leveled a dire look at House, unamused and unafraid to show it.

"Liar," he said.

House didn't even blink at the accusation. He just sighed, mopped a hand down his face, and grinned.

"You caught me!" he said. "Damn. And I was so close getting a straight answer, too."

"Does the Elda Virus even exist?" Kurama asked.

"Nope," House said. He spun his cane in his hand again. Was that a nervous gesture, or a thinking one? Kurama wasn't sure. "It's as fake as your hair."

Kurama suppressed a biting retort (his hair was perfectly natural!). "Fine. Whatever. But my mother has had no sexual partners in at least three years, if not longer. Do not attempt to manipulate me again."

He said that last part as a warning. House didn't appear to take note.

"It was worth a shot," he said. He looked Kurama up and down, lips curling once more into that cutting leer. "Though how you know so much about Mommy Dearest's sex life is a bit disturbing. Someone less judgmental than me might accuse you of having an Oedipus complex, being so obsessed with your mommy's fetishes and all." House stood. "What, you make all her nighttime visitors sign a guest log or something?"

"Shuichi—what's going on?"

Kurama jolted at the sound of his mother's voice. Truth be told, he'd been so focused on House he'd almost forgotten her. The realization filled him with guilt. House wasn't his priority, here—his mother was. Kurama rounded the foot of her bed to stand at her side once more, passing a loving hand over her hair when he approached.

"It's nothing, Mother," he said. Her deep, liquid eyes regarded Kurama with warmth and trust he didn't feel he deserved. "Just discussing what tests you might have the energy for. I don't mean to worry you." He picked up the bowl from her bedside table. "Please, eat just a bite. You have to keep up your strength."

Shiori obediently allowed Kurama to feed her a spoonful of rice porridge. When she swallowed, she started to cough. Kurama fetched her water and helped her sit up. As he rubbed his mother's back, trying to calm her down, he felt eyes on him. When he looked up, he saw House. The American doctor stood by the door. His eyes were troubled with something Kurama couldn't name, but when their eyes met, House schooled his features into their previous scornful mask.

"Want me to play nice?" House asked.

Kurama did not reply. He let his glare do the talking for him.

"Give me DNA," House said. He gestured at Shiori, then at Kurama. "I still think you're adopted. Gimme that, and I'll leave you alone."

Kurama closed his eyes. His mother was still coughing, still struggling to keep down the food that would give her strength. On the one hand, House would make Kurama's life a living hell if Kurama did not comply. On the other…

"You wouldn't want me asking Mommy Dearest these things directly, would you?" House said. He studied his nails, casual and calm. The man gave another blue-eyed smirk, aimed squarely at Kurama. "Imagine what the stress might do to her."

But Kurama wouldn't fall for that. "That's an empty threat," Kurama said.

"Oh?" House asked.

"You wouldn't risk speaking to my mother in Japanese," Kurama said. It was his turn to smirk. "She'd start asking you questions. Imagine what the stress might do to _you."_

House blinked. It was a subtle gesture, but Kurama recognized it for what it was. He'd called House's bluff, and House knew it.

But House wasn't finished. "I can always get an orderly to do my dirty work," he said. The doctor shrugged. "I'm sure I can find someone here to translate, for the right price. Orderlies are always underpaid in places like this."

That threat might not be so empty. Still, Kurama had no intention of taking it seriously—for now, at least. Even to solve the puzzle that Shuichi represented, House would not connect with a patient. The fox took a deep breath.

"I highly doubt anyone here will play your game, least of all myself," he said, voice as pleasant as a summer day. Kurama looked pointedly away from the doctor, eyes switching back to his ailing mother. "I hope you have a pleasant evening, House-sensei."

House said nothing for a second. Then he smirked, and he limped out the door.

Kurama was not foolish enough to believe he'd won that fight. He'd only delayed the inevitable for a little while longer. He'd endured House's abuse on his mother's behalf, taking the verbal blows without fighting back, but House would not remain satisfied by this small victory for long.

Soon, Kurama would have to strike back.

House would regret picking a fight with this fox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will contain Kurama's back story, for the benefit of any House fans who might not know of Yu Yu Hakusho. Stay tuned, and thanks for the kudos left since last update! :)


	5. DNA

In the weeks that followed, Kurama found himself preoccupied by the concept of DNA.

Deoxyribonucleic acid. The building blocks of life. A chemical structure passed from parent to offspring, granting said offspring traits and abilities developed by their ancestors over the course of evolution's required millennia. DNA was biological inheritance, and a testament to nature's enduring hand.

Kurama had learned the basics of biology in school, alongside his human peers in the classrooms they shared. To the other children DNA had been a mysterious, almost metaphysical concept, something to be spoken of but never seen with the eyes, touched with the hands, or experienced in a way that made it concrete. In a way that made DNA feel like it _mattered_.

In contrast, DNA mattered very much to Kurama.

In this way—and in many others—Kurama was not like the other children.

* * *

Kurama had never known his parents. Not his true parents, anyway.

Centuries before, he had been born as a fox cub to fox parents. He was weaned alongside siblings whose faces he could not recall and who had never been given names, and left to fend for himself. His earliest memories began in a cool forest, and in them, he was alone. If Kurama thought back hard enough, he could vaguely remember warmth, and soft fur, and darkness—but nothing more.

Then years passed in a forest's shade: years spent surviving, hiding, seeing, absorbing. With these years came experience—experience that turned him from mere fox to sentient animal, and from sentient animal to full-fledged demon capable of assuming bipedal form and using speech. Somewhere along the way, he earned the name Kurama. As a demon he became a thief, renowned throughout the entirety of Demon World, a king in his own right.

A king risen from the lowest form of beast to the highest form of predator.

And then he had been killed.

Kurama admitted he had been sloppy that night. Nostalgic, he had taken his old form—that of a massive fox with many tails, a tail for each hundred years of his long life—and raided a castle rumored to hold forbidden treasure.

It was a trap, of course. He failed to notice the warriors atop the battlements until they attacked. Kurama tried to flee, but his enemies proved too many. He had been chased and then slain like the animal he had begun life as.

Kurama was a wily creature, however. As his body lay dying, he forced his soul from his flesh and fled. A risky move, to be sure. Souls are fragile without a body to house them. Demons often ate souls for their supper.

He knew he was not safe in Demon World…so into the Human World Kurama fled.

No one would think to look for him there, surely. Not when, as a demon, he had killed so many humans simply for sport. He flew through the Human World as a naked spirit, disdainful of the people he passed over, until he found what he was looking for.

Shiori.

Or rather, the unborn creature inside her.

The fetus (it couldn't be called a baby yet) had not developed enough to acquire a proper soul. Kurama possessed the empty, growing shell, wrapping the scant cluster of cells around his spirit to protect that most precious part of his Self. There he waited, merging with this new host body, feeling its human energy mesh with his own demonic aura in a heady cocktail of meeting powers. But then his demonic power faded, hibernating within the human flesh, until he appeared nothing more than a typical human fetus to any untrained eye.

Soon, he was born. He was aware when it happened. He blinked in the harsh light and tried to speak, but could not. His voice, his eyes, his hands, his demonic energy, his _birthright_ —they would not obey him.

In body, he was a baby. In mind, he was a demon still.

Shiori named Kurama 'Shuichi.'

She did not know her son already had a name. A name he chose for himself long before Shiori was even born.

* * *

Time passed, and Kurama grew.

Kurama was not like the other children. He knew things. He had experienced things that made the humans appear no more than animals in his eyes. He did not seek to forge friendships with his peers. He preferred to play by himself.

That's what the adults thought he was doing, anyway. _Playing_. In truth, he was planning. Deducing when his energy would replenish and regain its former demonic glory. Predicting how old he would be when that happened, and what Demon World would be like when he saw it again. Dreaming of the day he would return, gloriously reborn, to Demon World, and leave behind the woman who had birthed him.

The woman who had birthed him.

Shiori.

Kurama was grateful to her, in a way. She provided food. Protection. She gestated him, unaware of the powerful creature she carried inside her, and she loved him with every ounce of her pathetic human heart. Her kind eyes, warm hands, soft words, nurturing nature—so unlike the animal parents who had abandoned Kurama the moment he was weaned. So much more loving. So much more devoted.

Despite her devotion, Kurama thought little of Shiori. He felt even less for her. She was a simple human, with simple human desires, and not enough complexity to merit his attention.

She was a means to an end. No point getting attached. He'd leave her one day, anyway.

Kurama went to school to please her. He played with the other children to keep her from asking too many questions. But, he learned to read without her help, and he learned to write and count when she wasn't looking. He watched the news and understood conflict, pain, war, without need for explanation—without emotion, even.

He had killed before, in Demon World. He'd killed hundreds, for crimes as minor as regarding Kurama with too bold an eye. The atrocities on the television paled in comparison to the tortures he'd dealt with his own clawed hand in Demon World.

Thus, he never required his mothers' comfort, because he never had bad dreams. Nothing in Human World scared him.

He never needed his mother to explain the sun or the moon, because books told him the truth of those things (the humans, for all their weaknesses, knew more about the world than demons).

He never sought out a hug, or a kiss, or a compliment, or a bedtime story, or a lullaby.

He drew Shiori no pictures, like the other children drew for their mothers, nor did he ask for his mother's company when he sat by himself after school in his room.

Shiori would often drop to her knees and ask Kurama about the toys he played with. He'd always humor her, at least for a while. But then she'd see the pitying look in his eye, realize _she_ was the one being humored, and trudge away with head hanging low.

Kurama…he just didn't need Shiori.

But _she_ needed _him_.

He saw the longing gleam in her eye. He saw how often she tried to help him, tried to play with him, tried to bond with the son she'd birthed. He understood that human mothers felt an instinctual urge to bond with their offspring. He understood that the denial of that bond caused his mother pain. He understood his distance, his disregard for her attention, wounded Shiori deeply.

But, he didn't care.

Or rather, he tried not to think about her pain.

Avoiding her pain meant he could ignore the traitorous ache he felt in his chest when he observed her crying.

She was a means to an end. No point getting attached. He'd leave her one day, anyway.

So: Instead of spending time with his mother, Kurama stayed in his room. In private he regained access to his demonic energy. His old power felt muted, though, and distant. Accessing it in full would take time, and much practice. Practice is what he did instead of bonding with his mother. He watched her wither, saw her warm eyes grow dim as he rejected her over and over, until she finally left her son—the old soul trapped in a young body—alone.

Ah, solitude. Peace at last.

And then came the day she'd nearly died for him.

On that day, everything changed.

* * *

The context of the moment hardly mattered. He'd climbed up on a cabinet, forgetful of the weakness of his eight-year-old human body. Plates spilled from the shelves, crashing onto the floor in sharp shards, and then he fell. Shiori cried his name and dove, arms slamming onto the broken glass, cushioning his fall, keeping him safe from harm. Then she'd sat up, blood pouring from the wounds, _so much blood_ , she'd sliced an artery for certain—and smiled.

"Are you all right, Shuuichi?" she asked.

She showed no concern for herself.

She showed only love for _him_. For the cold, condescending creature who had never thought of his own _mother_ as a _somebody_.

For the first time in his long, short life, Kurama felt something for his mother.

That something, to his immense chagrin, was love. Connection. Because try though he might, he could not deny the pull of their shared DNA.

He ran to the bleeding woman, threw his arms around her neck, and cried like the child that, in many important ways, he most definitely was.

From that moment on, Kurama vowed to never let Shiori suffer again.

* * *

That's why Kurama wouldn't give his DNA to House, in the end.

Kurama had been birthed by Shiori, but he had been born with red hair and green eyes despite his biologically Japanese parents. His demonic form hadn't possessed that coloring. If that coloring hadn't come from Shiori, or her deceased husband, or Kurama's past self…where had it come from?

Answers—fractions of them, at least—came when Kurama got his hands on a biology textbook in middle school. He read about DNA with wonder. Demons didn't know about DNA. They were concerned with power and fighting, not exploring the world through science. The human discovery of DNA explained the connection he felt with Shiori, but what did it imply about his power? About his demonic heritage? About his future?

What would happen if he allowed his DNA to be tested?

Were the laws of human flesh immutable, concrete…or had his human vessel been warped by the tenor of his demonic soul? Would a test show that Kurama had not come from Shiori in all the ways she expected? Would it show odd genetic markers, uncommon chromosomes, unexplainable mutations?

Kurama feared his demonic soul had warped his human body's genetic code in some fashion. That was the only explanation he had for his odd coloring.

Would explicit discovery of his potentially odd DNA damage the bond Kurama had finally forged with Shiori?

Would he be detained by scientists, and studied for his unusual biology? For his potential as a freak of nature?

Kurama did not know. But if a DNA test could sever the connection he had with his mother—

At the thought, his blood ran cold.

No.

No DNA tests. If the results showed his DNA was in any way abnormal, the stress of such a revelation could kill Shiori.

Part of him suspected that he had caused her disease. He'd broken her spirit and made her susceptible to it, at the very least. He'd been trying for years to make up for how badly he'd broken her, obsessively nurturing their bond ever since that day she'd nearly died for him. Although doctors had replenished her lost blood and sewed up her wounds at the hospital, Shiori never recovered. Not fully. She'd never been the same since Kurama had broken her, when he was a demon trapped in a child's body, unwilling to treat her with dignity or respect—or love.

He would not let her suffer more at his expense.

Kurama would never let House take his mother away from him.

'Over his dead body,' as the saying goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't planning on writing a chapter about Kurama's past, AT ALL, but I realized if any House fans who haven't watched YYH are reading this, they might get a bit lost. Hopefully this chapter helped explain some of Kurama's background. Plus I liked looking at why Kurama is so doggedly against that DNA test, which a few YYH fans thought didn't make sense. Hopefully this helps.
> 
> Summary: In the Yu Yu Hakusho anime/manga, there are three world—Human, Demon, and Spirit World. Humans live in Human World, and demons (AKA supernatural creatures) live in Demon World. Spirit World is basically the afterlife.
> 
> Kurama used to be a demon in Demon World. He got killed, sent his soul to Human World, and sort of "laid low" in a human embryo until he was born (souls are delicate without a body, so he took a body to keep his soul safe). He's been recovering his demonic power slowly over the years. For a long time he meant to return to being a demon, but he grew to love his mother after the falling-plate-incident, and decided to remain (mostly) human for her sake. Hope that makes sense! Ask me if you have questions and I'll try to explain more.
> 
> Also, Kurama can control plants. That's important. He was a nature spirit in the form of a fox, back when he was a demon, with silver hair and golden eyes. Very pretty.


End file.
